


With What's Left

by sansos



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, F/M, Japanese National Team, Pro Volleyball Player Oikawa Tooru, there is one instance where reader swears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:47:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25242652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansos/pseuds/sansos
Summary: He may have been just appointed as the captain of the Japanese National Volleyball Team, but that didn’t stop Oikawa Tōru from practicing through the night. He had to –he had to lead a team of monsters all better than him in every way. It was just dumb luck that he was made captain. All just dumb luck.
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru & Reader, Oikawa Tooru/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 43





	With What's Left

**Author's Note:**

> The hint to the message of the story is in the title!

“And leading the team this year,” the announcer spoke into the microphone as he opened the envelope, “is Oikawa Tōru, who played as a setter representing Japan at the last World Championship and is currently playing for CA San Juan in Argentina.”

The blinding lights of a sea of cameras flooded his vision and Oikawa hid his eyes behind the wide beam he had on standing in front of center stage and posing with the coach as he was handed his jersey with the familiar bar from his high school days sitting directly under his number. He bowed deeply as he clutched onto the neatly folded jersey with his left hand, taking the chance with his fringe shielding him from the flashes of eager photographers to open his eyes to glance more carefully at the shirt.

There was a certain sense of nostalgia associated with the underline. He had spent most of his middle school and high school life learning, shadowing, and being in the role —carrying out the duties and responsibilities as well as shouldering the burden associated with being the captain.

And it was because of the past experiences surrounding the title that brought upon a sense of relief when he was freed from the position in CA San Juan.

He wasn’t the captain of the team in Argentina —it didn’t make sense for him to be. Why would someone with conversational Spanish be in charge of coordinating communication between the team, the coach, and even the officials? Besides, there were more veteran players who were more skilled and qualified by far to take up the mantle. He was nothing but a setter on the team. It was liberating in a sense: he could concentrate his focus on the game, pouring all of his efforts into his technique and into thinking up spur-of-the-moment plays that could win them the match at the last second.

Oikawa stood back up, his smile once again gracing his sharp features as he stood still once more for the cameras, showing off his jersey with whatever feigned pride he seemed to be wearing. With the clearing of the throat from the MC to announce the next segment, Oikawa turned around and made his way off of the stage, clutching on tightly to the uniform with both hands as if the shackles of the burden befalling the captain had become too heavy for him to lift after years of freedom.

As he walked through the doors of the repurposed gymnasium and out into the hallway, he was met with the applause and smiles of his future team members and staff members.

“Hey, hey, hey! Congrats!”

“You're going to be an amazing captain, Oikawa-san.”

“I’m glad it’s you.”

Oikawa emptily laughed and scratched the back of his head at the praise, mutters of “No, you’re over exaggerating,” and “I’ll try my best not to disappoint,” being voiced out as the smile he had forced on stayed fix in place.

“Oikawa-san.”

Oikawa paused and looked over, then excused himself from the group to turn around and face his old teammate and rival —his cheerful demeanour having dropped ever so slightly.

“Yes, Tobio-chan?”

“Congratulations,” Kageyama said as he reached out his hand to the brunet for a handshake. Oikawa reciprocated the move, firmly grasping onto his junior’s hand, the wide smile he had on his face from earlier thrusted back onto his lips.

“You’ll be amazing,” Kageyama stated with direct eye contact, eyes filled with such certainty that Oikawa nearly snickered at the notion. Oikawa laughed another hollow laugh.

_Would he really?_

“Of course, Tobio-chan,” he sang as he tightened his grip on the man’s shake. “It’s me, after all. Even a genius like yourself’s got nothing against me,” he chuckled.

Kageyama nodded with a small smile. “That’s true,” he agreed as he retracted his hand back to his coat pocket. “But that’s a truth I’ve known for a long time.” Kageyama took a step forward towards the sliding glass doors of the building exit. Oikawa frowned.

“I’ll never be able to beat you in my whole life, probably,” the younger man mused to himself, turning back around to face Oikawa. “But I look forward to learning from you anyways, Captain,” he finished as he walked through the automatic doors and back out into the city, disappearing into the crowd of the evening rush.

Oikawa stayed rooted in his spot, confined to the square tile that he was standing on as if he was chained to the ground.

“How nauseating,” he commented.

* * *

Oikawa served ball after ball under the bright white lights of the gym, emptying basket after basket and only pausing for a break to replenish the bin so he could start the cycle once more.

On his fifth —or was it sixth?— cycle, he looked down at his hands. His left was fine albeit a little dry from all the dust and dirt from its contact with the ball. It worked hard, having tossed the ball upwards over and over again without fail. His jump toss was near-perfect: in nearly all cases he was able to get the ball up to the spot where he could hit it the easiest, and it wasn’t hard to tell where it would be easiest for him either. It was easiest for him to hit the ball when it was exactly 15º away from the vertical trajectory of the toss —where his palm would strike at the perfect spot when he swung. His timing and angle of the jump —that was also worked out to the finest of details.

He glanced over to his right hand. A far cry from its counterpart, it was battered, reddened, swollen, and was that… blood? Oikawa raised up his fingers to his face to take a closer look. _The ball must have cut into the skin between my index and middle finger during one of my serves_. He walked over to the side and took out a band-aid, taping it onto the spot haphazardly before returning back to the edge of the court to ready for another serve.

He tossed the ball up, and waited for the ball to just ever eclipse the light fixtures above the court before jumping up and swinging his arm back.

_It’ll work this time, the timing was just right. The toss was perfect._

His palm slammed against the ball, sending it over to the other side at a velocity so fast that it hit the floor while Oikawa still remained in midair.

He looked down at his right hand, then clenched it tightly into a fist.

_Another failure._

He looked over at the ball sitting on the other side of the net, now tucked tightly behind one of the benches lined against the wall.

_Again._

Tossing his head back, he shielded his face from the bright rays of the fluorescent lighting from the ceiling.

It was always his right hand. Everything would always be perfect except for his right hand. The toss, the timing, the angle, the position —it was all perfect. There was no issue with it: it was reliable, resilient, and steadfast.

But it was always the final part of the puzzle —the metaphorical final step before the finish line— that ruined it all and jeopardized everything that he had worked for. It was his right hand who couldn’t, for the life of it, just spike the ball properly with _just_ enough force at _just_ the right angle to land inside the court _just_ where he wanted it. No matter how hard it tried, no matter how many times he’s repeated the motion, the right hand always disappointed. Unlike the left hand, it was rocky, fallible, and so impossibly _risky_.

 _“I’ll never be able to beat you in my whole life, probably_. _”_

Oikawa laughed, a single tear escaping from captivity and rolling down his cheek, mixing in with the sweat that had perspired as he trained. Face flushed, hair disheveled, eyes red —how pathetic he looked.

_You’ve beaten me since the first day we met, Tobio._

“I thought I might find you in here,” a voice announced, breaking the silence that had settled and signalling the arrival of a spectator by the door. Oikawa quickly rubbed the tears from his eyes and looked over, fingering his hair back into place before he plastered on another smile to hide his eyes behind.

“Guard recognized me and let me in,” you explained, leaning back on the door. Oikawa nodded, you were probably a familiar face around the building by now given how often you used to swing by after work to go home with Oikawa when he was training for the Championships. He waved for you to walk in to join him in the gymnasium, tucking the volleyball he was holding under his right arm.

“Oh, sorry (f/n)-chan,” he apologized in his familiar singsong voice. “I forgot to mention that I wanted to stay behind this morning, didn’t I?” He let out a small chuckle when he saw you roll your eyes. “You know me, always having to put in the extra work to keep up with these monsters.”

You frowned in response, and walked over to where he stood under the bright lights in the center of the court with volleyballs —both Mikasa and Molten— scattered around him. Your hands, near reflexively, found themselves on the sides of his face, and chocolate brown found (e/c) as you studied his complexion in detail with your brows furrowed further.

“You’ve been crying,” you noted. So he wasn’t able to hide the redness in his eyes after all.

“Tears of happiness,” he offered as he backed away from your scrutinization. You nodded slowly, casting a look filled with doubt yet not acting upon it, and reached out for his hand. He obliged and wove his fingers between yours.

“I heard. You’re going to be an amazing captain, Tōru.”

_That again._

“You deserve it more than anyone else,” you continued with a tightened grip of his hand. Oikawa let out a snort.

“What amazing confidence you have there, (f/n)-chan,” he laughed as he once again hid behind the comfort of his masked smile. “But that’s not true, you know,” he said as he reached out to give you a light flick on your forehead. “Everyone’s so talented, I just got lucky.”

Oikawa noticed your eyes flicker and your pupils dilate ever so slightly as he retracted back his hand. He chuckled, and though it was entirely to continue selling his act of indifference, he knew that it was nothing but a feeble attempt to trick you.

“You’re bleeding,” you noted as you brought his hand up to your eye level to inspect. Oikawa peered down, and noticed that the wound he had taped over had reopened, with vines of dark red wrapping around the length of his forearm.

“A wound just reopened,” he reassured as he fought to withdraw your arm from your hold. You gently pulled him over and sat him down on the bench, removing the blood-soaked bandaid before wiping the area clean with a disinfectant wipe.

Oikawa grimaced and let out a grunt of pain as the chemicals made contact with his wound, gritting his teeth to restrain himself from ripping his hand away from your grasp as you taped a clean bandaid over the injury.

“If you’re injured you should take a break,” you mumbled as you looked up with concerned eyes, carding your fingers through his fringe to brush the disheveled mess back into place.

He stared at you as he let you fix his hair. “It’s not that easy,” he objected curtly. Your fingers stop and you rescinded your touch from his face, favoring the feeling of his fingers entwined between yours instead.

“It needs to be,” you answered.

“Not when Ushiwaka’s cannon’s on the team, and Miya’s… _whatever_ is on the team,” he responded, unlacing his hands from yours as he faced forward and looked up through the glass panels of the ceiling at the outside world. The announcement had ended before dusk, but his eyes were met with the vast emptiness of the dark sky rather than the propagating clouds he had seen when Kageyama had left earlier.

You reached out for his shoulder, but he shrugged you off as he heaved a sigh, combing his fingers through his hair and messing up all the effort you had spent on fixing his messy hair.

“There’s no one better—” you began, standing up and grabbing onto his arm to stop him in his tracks.

“—Everyone’s better!” He nearly screamed into your face, his steady control from before vanishing, freeing the tears that had previously been dammed out in a rush. “Everyone’s better, and I’ll never be able to measure up,” he choked, voice quivering with such foreign vulnerability that even he no longer recognized it. He shook your arm off of his and walked back over to the court to pick up another volleyball.

He could feel you staring quietly from behind him; no sound of footsteps, no rustling of your clothing, no jingle of the keychain on your bag. No, there was nothing but silence and the sound of your calm, even breathing juxtaposed against his suppressed sobs separating the two of you.

Oikawa spun around on his heel, walking up to you once more with the volleyball still held tightly in his right hand while grabbing onto yours with his left as he strolled past. And while he kept his head down and walked on ahead, his grip on your hand was light and gentle, as if unsure and hesitant about how you would react to the contact.

“I’ll walk you back to the door,” he mumbled, guiding you across the series of interconnected corridors of the maze. You hummed in response, much to his relief, as you interlaced your fingers with his and allowed the brunet to take the lead.

He sighed. He never was one for arguments, and certainly not ones with you. The you who had always cared for him and supported him from the sidelines, encouraging him when he faltered and praising him when he succeeded —you were always with him every step of the way. For you to go home with this being the last you spoke to him before he found his way back to bed at some ungodly hour… It didn’t feel right.

The thought of you curled up in bed, cheeks stained with tears because of him… It didn’t feel right.

“I’ll be back later tonight.”

You nodded, remaining quiet as you looked up at him with an expression so forlorn that Oikawa found himself imprisoned by his own regret from his earlier explosive episode.

“I’m sorry,” he began, nervously fiddling with his fingers in front of him as he racked through his head for the right words to lighten the mood —to bring some semblance of a smile back onto your face. You hummed at the apology, tilting your head every so slightly as if to express your acknowledgement. Oikawa stood back up, squaring his shoulders with the same routine carefree smile now on his face.

“Thanks for always putting up with me, (f/n), I know the other guys must’ve been better choices than me, huh?”

You turned over, looking up at him with an incredulous expression. Oikawa rubbed the nape of his neck as he loudly exhaled. “I mean, if you went out with any one of the other guys you would’ve been able to show off your superstar genius boyfriend, not some guy who ended up as captain because of dumb luck.”

And at that moment, Oikawa knew that the wrong words had come out from his mouth. Rather than the nervous laugh he had expected, you had reacted at his joke in a fit of rage. You had thrown your bag onto the ground, giving no second thought at your phone dropping screen-first onto the hard tiled flooring of the entrance, and grabbed him by the shirt collar with eyes so filled with anger and… was that betrayal?

“You think I said yes to you all those years ago just because you’re good at hitting a ball and not letting it fall onto the ground?” You hissed, pushing your face squarely into his, your knuckles turning white from the sheer strength in your grip. “You don’t think that it was something else, some other quality, that made me fall so fucking _uselessly_ in love with you that I would still stay around even when you pull some stupid shit like _this_? You don’t think that maybe, just _maybe_ , everyone thinks you deserve the bar underneath because there’s something inherently in you and you alone that can lead them to victory?”

Oikawa simply blinked in response.

“If you turn a blind eye to everything else, then tell me, Tōru,” you heaved through gritted teeth, “tell what are you going to do with what’s left?”

And with that, you threw down your grip on his shirt, turned around, and walked out through the automatic glass doors and back out into the bustling night of the city.

**Author's Note:**

> Another one of Micchi’s “what was she even trying to say”-type stories and it’s a heavy one with Oikawa, yet again to highlight something that always crosses my mind when I think about him, or specifically high school him. I like to think he’s come around to realize what exactly makes him such a formidable player in the time-skip. Finished this one up in a hurry because if Oikawa isn’t team captain... this story wouldn’t work out that well.
> 
> If you're interested, [I'm taking event requests on Tumblr right now!](https://inarizakikoukou.tumblr.com/post/623274463374524416/hello-ive-somehow-been-able-to-reach-200)


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